You can barely hear the dial-tone
that hums through the wires of your brain.
It is the call of drones, buzzing as they fly
on their secret missions
known only to those
who man the remote controls,
striking the keys to send
unmanned Hawks, Ravens, and Shadows
deep into Pakistan, Yemen, Syria, and Somalia.
We have absolute confidence
in our sources. Our President
is in command, making
the hard decisions. Later
he falls asleep to the monotone hum
in the back of his mind,
while Pakistanis, herding sheep,
look up, straining to hear
the unnerving buzz
of mechanical birds.
Ed Meek has had poems published in The Sun, North Dakota Quarterly, and Plume. His new book, High Tide, came out last summer.